Word Choice
by Firebirdie
Summary: Vette has a few questions.


**A/N:** Same 'verse as my other SWTOR stuff. Yet another Vette 'n Evren figuring each other out fic, to no one's great surprise. As ever, 1000% gen. Enjoy. :)

**Word Choice**

**o.O.o**

The blue glow of hyperspace wars with the sullen red interior lighting of the _Maelstrom_'s cockpit, turning both its occupants interesting shades of purple.

"You ever going to explain the whole _you reek of fear_ thing?" Vette says, briefly dropping her voice to a menacing growl and making a ferocious face, slightly lessened in impact by her ungainly sideways sprawl in the copilot's chair. "Or is it just part of the Sithy package?"

"The _Sithy package_?" Evren says, amused. He's moderately concerned for her spine, having himself opted to simply lean against the bulkhead while the ship's droid monitors navigation.

"You know. _Grrrr, I am a very scary Dark Lord, bow before me!_ That stuff."

"I'm fairly certain I've never actually said _grrr_—"

"You know what I mean!" Vette pokes him in the side with the toe of her boot; he mock-glares at her as she smiles winsomely. "But seriously. It's always smell, and it's not just you, 'cause I keep hearing similar stuff from other Sith."

Evren considers for a moment. "It's about as close as Basic comes to describing how fear feels in the Force," he says slowly. "It sort of . . . spreads, and becomes stronger the closer you draw to the source."

"Huh."

"People who haven't been trained to mask it, or use it, or who are otherwise preoccupied—sensing their fear is a bit like scenting blood. Which gives you an angle of attack, a weak point to target, either as a distraction or as an end in itself. Pushed far enough, they'll shatter, or present an opening to exploit."

". . . _Huh._" She looks somewhere between disgusted and unnerved. Her Force aura draws away from his, pulling tight and small against her skin, and she sits up fully, hands on her knees, elbows locked.

Evren frowns, concerned. "Vette?"

She meets his eyes for a moment; then her gaze flicks away. "That's . . . okay, that's really, really creepy." She laughs a little, as if trying to brush off her unease, but it's glaringly obvious that something is wrong.

"Vette, I—"

"Is that how you see everyboy, all the time? Sith, I mean."

"Yes . . ."

"_Why?_"

"Everyone is a potential threat. The only way to survive is to strike first, and strike where it hurts." No. Not his words. _Hells._ Breathe in. Breathe out. _No._ "Except," he says, adding a crooked smile, "I'm not overly fond of jumping straight onto the offensive."

Vette laughs again, a little more genuine this time. "Yeah. Mixed results with the whole diplomacy thing, though."

"Evidently the Jedi didn't get the memo."

"Also, you're kind of an asshole."

"That, too," he says cheerfully.

There's a quiet moment during which he almost manages to begin to relax. Then Vette says, "So we're all just . . . what, collections of weaknesses?"

Fearshame_guilt_ and he _hates it_, hates the part of him that recoils from the sad sorry truth that—

"Yes," he snaps. "Yes, we are."

Breathe in. Breathe out. Eyes screwed shut until the telltale burn dissipates, until there is no chance of yellow boiling up to swallow blue, until he can look at Vette again. She's staring at him, startled but unafraid, demanding explanation.

"Then why bother caring at all?" she says.

How many times did he ask himself that question? How long did it take before he could answer to his own satisfaction? At least he _can_ answer. "Because power does not justify its own use. Being capable of destroying someone is not a reason to _do it._ And no one's life is worth less simply because they are not Sith."

". . . Huh." Thoughtful, now. She shakes her head. "I—sorry. For pushing. Probably not a good sign when people do that about this stuff."

He huffs out a mirthless laugh. "Generally not, no."

"And, uh, thanks. Clears up a lot."

"You're welcome," he says. Means it, too, somewhat to his surprise. But she has every right to know his motives. Her trust is not freely given, nor should it be, not when their situation is so imbalanced. And he can't fault her for his . . . his weaknesses.

Silence stretches taut and fragile between them. Vette looks as if she's about to speak up for a moment, then closes her mouth. Evren glances off to the side and tries not to fidget.

There's a soft chime from the navicomputer. They're nearing Hutt space.

"We should probably," Evren starts, at the same time as Vette says, "I guess—"

They both trail off as the chime repeats. Vette sighs. "Better get ready, then."

"Right," Evren says.

**o.O.o**

_end_


End file.
